Second Chances
by Gwen The Fair
Summary: Ten years after the battle of Hogwarts, Hermione Granger works for Britain's Immigration Offices, trying her best to forget her magical life and move on from the damage the war has done to her. Enter Auror Weasley with an assignment that will drag both Hermione and him back into that world she longs to leave behind. EWE
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

"Ms. Granger, please have those papers on my desk in half an hour. I want to double check the applicants first thing Monday morning."

The words were spoken casually by Hermione's boss, Ms. Singh and as she walked towards her office. Hermione nodded, and then realized the woman's back was to her.

"Already on the last dozen," she called out instead. She then rolled back her shoulders, and prepared to tackle the last of her stack before the weekend.

Computers had been the hardest part, she decided and she took on the listings in hardcopy format rather than on the hosted server page. When all was said and done, it was really quite incredible what one could remember from ten years of primary school – advanced arithmetic, scientific principals, some politics even, but computers?

She'd had to start from scratch in Internet cafés, and it was weeks before she felt she could trust herself with a laptop. The mechanics of it all were simple enough. It was the computers themselves didn't make it easy. Honestly, it was as though the boxes of complex wiring could sense the utterly 'non-muggleness of her. It was as though magic crackled around her skin in a low-level field that interfered with anything and everything electrical in her daily life.

Her trials were hardly limited to the one beast of technology. The photocopier was another perfect example. Hermione could approach a photocopier with a full paper supply, full toner supply and all the correct instructions and commands entered, and still, miraculously, the bloody hulking piece of technology would refuse to operate. Sometimes it gave an error code that no manual or even the manufacturers would recognize. Other times it just didn't acknowledge Hermione's presence. She could press 'print' ten times and nothing would happen!

It had gotten to be such a hindrance to her work that Hermione'd gotten in the habit of slipping her paperwork in with her coworkers' stacks. That was how she'd met her coworker and close friend Lucy.

Hermione gave a sidelong glance at the desktop that she would have to start pulling data from shortly. Yes, computers were particularly special. With the Internet, email, spreadsheets, tables, and word processors, they were an unavoidable staple of office life, and were supposed to be incredibly useful. However sudden computer crashes, lost work, miscommunications between computer and printer and internet crashes had become an accepted part of Hermione's existence.

Sometimes they felt normal, as though she was just any other office worker having a bad day, which she had to admit, was exactly what she wanted.

As though her gaze had willed it into existence, an instant message popped up on her computer's screen.

**L: Knock off early? **

Hermione smiled to herself and resisted the urge to glance over her shoulder at its sender. Her fingers found purchase on the keyboard.

**H: God, yes! **

**L: The Usual? **

**H: It's Friday, let's kick it up a notch. **

**L: Okay, meet you outside in 10. **

It was these little rushes that made it all worthwhile: the utterly normal feeling of being excited for the weekend, of planning dinners and shopping trips. It was all so normal that it was special. Picking out new shoes felt like making an important life decision. Finishing that last book in a series felt like a marker of success as Hermione added all 12 tomes to her bursting bookshelf. What more could she want?

She found herself whizzing through the final rounds of paperwork, only half glancing at the spelling of names, places of birth, intent etc. etc. Ten minutes was, ten minutes!

She'd picked work in the immigration offices because they were important and necessary. She would always know that what she was doing, in someway and to some person, mattered, and yes, there were some days where she took it almost too seriously, double and triple checking applicants backgrounds like the detective of a some 1940s paperback mystery. Sometimes (and recently, more often than she'd care to admit) Hermione found herself simply going through the paces. She found herself living for the rest of her life – the part that was fun, full of coffee dates and traipsing around England.

Sure, immigration would always be important to document, but more often than not, she simply came across American university students who'd fallen in love and wanted extended work permits. Nothing major. Nothing sinister.

Not to mention July was something of 'rush' month with visas coming up for renewal. Really, she'd earned this weekend. She could afford to be a little lax as she poured over the names of applicants.

**Harriet Winston**. _Print_, Hernione thought to herself as she fiddled with the mouse to try and cajole the computer to do her bidding.

**Louise Delaney**. _Print_, she thought merrily.

**Thomas Strange**.

_Strange_…

Her right hand hovered the curser, hesitating to add Thomas to the print pile. She could feel it - her hands clenching involuntarily, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end, and worst of all, a high pitched shriek breaking free from the locked chambers of her mind.

It was cruel and wrong that ten years later she couldn't anticipate the triggers. Around her the office whirred on in a haze of click-clacking keyboards, slamming file drawers and oiled swiveling of chairs. Friday night was almost upon them all. But everything from the drone of cars outside to the brightest of mobile ringtones had reduced to a dull echo, as though Hermion had suddenly been plunged underwater.

_You're having a panic attack. _She thought the words like an incantation. _You are having a panic attack and in a moment, you will feel fine. You are safe. _

She forced air into her lungs.

_You are safe and there is nothing to worry about_.

She forced herself to read over the full paperwork of Thomas Strange, to confirm for herself that he was not somehow Bellatrix with a pseudonym.

**Last:** Strange, **Middle:** Mortimer, **First:** Thomas

**Age:** 26

**Country of Birth:** Alsace

See? What could this boy have to do with Bellatrix, or the war? He was practically Hermione's own age. If anything, this Thomas would have been attending Durmstrang when the war was going – if he was even magical. The paperwork even stated that he was looking for a permanent residency. What sort of a pure blood wizard even knew what that meant? In this little office Hermione had quickly learned that where paperwork was concerned, the wizarding world was estranged from Britain and its government. She highly suspected that not a one of the professors she'd grown up respecting and admiring had so much as voted during any national elections.

She had nothing to fear from this Mr. Strange.

Print.

Besides, her ten minutes were almost up. She had to get these entered forms on Ms. Singh's desk for approval and she had to meet Lucy. The war was ten years ago.

"Thank God its Friday!" Lucy cheered, bringing the cocktails to her and Hermione's little table. They were in the centre of the din at HEX. Part swanky restaurant on one floor, part dance club on the other, HEX had 'end of the week' written all over. The magic of sex and release seemed to simply sizzle in the air.

"Cheers," Hermione clinked her glass and took a grateful swallow of gin and vermouth.

"Indeed!" Lucy took of sip of her own drink, flashing her dimples. She had a blunt, blond fringe that hung just atop her brow line, while the rest of her blond mane was swept into a casual ponytail, and (not that she could get any more sweet), but she had a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose that reminded Hermione of a character in a book.

She was the sort of girl Hermione had spent most of her life secretly trying to be.

"Thank you for suggesting an upgrade. Pints were simply not going to cut it. I have put in way too much data for a lifetime. Why does everyone want to live in jolly old England?"

"I know! God, my hands are killing me."

"Cheers, to that. So let's leave the office where it belongs. I don't know about you, but I need a life. I'm spending another weekend looking forward to Sunday dinner with my mum. Ugh. I need to get laid. Weekends are supposed to be for mini-breaks!"

_Sunday dinner with mum_… the very words were tangle inside her. No, Hermione had accepted what could not be changed, but it didn't make the holidays, the weekends or the lack of contact hurt any less.

Not that dwelling would help.

"What happened to Marcus? I thought you two had plans this weekend," Hermione asked with a determined brightness.

"He said he wants to keep things casual for now. See other people." Lucy took another swig, and half of her cocktail with it. "Last weekend it was all dinner dates and feelings and now its 'let's not jump in so quickly'."

"Ass."

"I know! And, I'm pretty sure it has to do with his new roommate. Remember I told you he was letting a family friend camp out? Well now the guy is moving in."

Hermione waited for the rest of the story to present itself.

"Okay," she said at last.

"You don't see it? Sounds to me like Marcus is suddenly 'finding himself'. I swear, if one more guy I'm sleeping with comes out of the closet… ugh!" Lucy downed the second half of her drink.

She shook herself all over, as if to wake up the nerve endings and then popped to her feet, pulling on Hermione's hand.

"We haven't even ordered," Hermione laughed, knowing where this was leading.

"Finish your drink. I want some fresh blood to buy me dinner."

Hermione took a quick glance down at her work clothes; a somewhat fitted grey skirt and a black blouse. Sure she was wearing heels, but she didn't exactly look ready to party. Still, what could it hurt to dance a little? She un-buttoned her blouse just enough to look as though her outfit was intentional (that's what all the magazines said to do), and then she followed Lucy's lead.

Maybe it was the blond hair, but Lucy had no trouble finding some willing men (Ivan and Perry) to buy them drinks, a fact of being a twenty-something woman that Hermione felt she would never tire of. She let Perry ply her with cocktails and compliments and let that tingling sensation of feeling beautiful and desired wash over her – a magic she would never master.

The music was loud and the beat was insistent, calling them all to the dance floor. Regardless of her ensemble, Hermione found herself twirling and twisting to the groove while Perry smiled at her adoringly. Her school dances had never been anything like this.

She still cringed to think of her first time in a proper nightclub in her first year of university. That was the moment she'd truly stepped into the 21st C from whatever medieval realm she'd been living in at Hogwarts; and with a G&T in one hand and longing look of a beautiful man ready to buy her another, she knew that she would never go back.

Maybe she'd let him buy her dinner. Maybe she'd let him drive her home.

"Hermione?"

She twisted around at the sound of her name and promptly dropped her drink.

_It couldn't be._

Perry moved to retrieve the fallen cup.

"I'll get you another," he smiled, unintentionally brushing against her as he moved towards the bar, and causing her to stumble.

A firm and familiar hand found her elbow and steadied her.

"I'm fine," she said, brushing the rest of her drink off her chest and realizing that her blouse was going to smell of gin for the rest of the night.

"Sorry," shouted an all too familiar voice over the thud of the music. "Didn't mean to startle you."

She realized his hand was still on her elbow, his long, slender fingers still brushing against her skin. They were more calloused than she'd remembered, sending unwanted shivers along her whole body.

She almost couldn't bring herself to look into his face, but she had to. Those blue eyes were just as piercing as she'd remembered, as though cutting through all her pretenses with a gaze. He still had that one dimple in the corner of his mouth. He still had a smattering of freckles and that tussled red hair. Although now it looked as though the tussling was more intentional.

But it was _him_.

"Ron."

"Hi!" He smiled, and she could see it in his eyes. "I can't believe its you!"

He was still holding her arm and she hadn't thought to brush him off. _Damn. After all these years…_

"What are you doing here?" she managed, tucking a stray curl behind her ear.

"Same as you probably," he shrugged.

She was suddenly all too aware of how her shirt was clinging to her bra and that her head was swimming in gin. Her cheeks flushed

"Have you eaten?" Ron took a step closer so that he could be heard over the music, and Hermione felt something like electricity ignite all along her skin. "Can I buy you dinner?"

Whatever her rational answer might have been, Hermione found herself nodding instantly.

Ron Weasley was in a muggle club looking at ease with the menu, comfortable and charming with the waitress, and confident in his gaze towards Hermione, as though she were a long lost treasure. What sort of dream had she stumbled into?

"You've changed," she smiled, shaking her head, not sure if she should keep staring at him or if she would wake up at any moment. Had all his roughness really been smoothed? Was he still the utter procrastinator and lazy lay-about that she'd known? Did he still have a temper?

And what was this inner calmness that seemed to be so cool and settled within him? Where was the restless hunger for life, the uncontrollable tempest of emotions that seemed to fly off the handle?

He seemed to take in the way she was starting at him and almost huffed.

"Okay, am I _that_ different? We were seventeen, you know? My hormones were everywhere." The tips of his ears turned the softest shade of pink.

"Oh, of course." Why was she blushing?

Thankfully the trill of her mobile interrupted.

**Lucy: **Perry's looking for you with your drink. What should I say?

**Herm: **Sorry! Got a better offer. Old boarding school friend.

**Lucy: **No way?! Can I meet him, or you tapping out for the night?

"Um, my friend wants to know if she can meet you?"

"Sure. If you'd like her to -"

"I don't…" oh God, was she blushing again? Was she sixteen? _Just hand him the keys to your apartment Hermione! You've practically got a neon sign pointing between your legs. _

**Herm:** Sorry Luce. Tapping out. We were really close – it's complicated.

**Lucy:** the best kind of old friend ;)

Two steaks and two glasses of wine later, everything felt a little easier, and little blurrier.

"You really made it as an auror. That is just so – so fantastic! I'm so pleased for you."

"Yeah? I honestly thought I was going to fail my final tests. I was so nervous the night before that I stared at the ceiling for hours, and when I finally nodded off I slept through my alarm."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"Hey," he said with mock-offense. "Well what about you? You practically vanished. Ginny thought you'd been scooped by the Department of Mysteries."

"How is Ginny? I haven't seen her since the wedding."

"You should ask her yourself. She'd love to hear from you. Her and Harry."

"The other brother you never needed but so desperately wanted."

"Something like that. Now he's got more family than he can handle. He's still teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts if you're curious. He and Gin have a place in Hogsmeade so he can walk up to work everyday."

"That sounds perfect for them."

The twinge of longing was a little unexpected. She hadn't missed that world, not in a long time, but they'd all been such good friends…

"Now, really, what have you been up to?"

"I'm just here in London."

The look on his face was hard to read.

"Are you with the Ministry? I feel like I would have run into you by now."

"I'm with the British Government."

There was a long beat, while the words seemed to click into place.

"Oh."

"I like it."

"Would I understand any of it, or is it all muggle talk?" He smiled at her, letting her off the hook, but she could feel the confusion stirring underneath his skin.

"Its pretty heavy stuff," she teased. "Maybe I'll tell you about it over breakfast." The words were out of her mouth before she could second-guess them, and before Ron could over think her and reject her. So what if all that wine and gin had made her bold? Hadn't she always wondered? Hadn't she always wanted this?

Hadn't he?

She certainly wasn't the innocent schoolgirl she'd once been, back when he'd consumed her daydreams and even some of her late night fantasies. Gone were those days, but still… when she'd been a while between partners or when she thought about her old life, he seemed to just surface in her thoughts like an unanswered question.

She let her hand brush over his knee under the table, and watched his ears turn red. His hand found hers and gave it a squeeze.

"Let me grab the bill. I'll ring us a cab."

"I'm just around the corner, we can walk."

"Good, I could use a walk."

The night air was cool on her skin after the body heat and haze of HEX. She had to focus not to stumble. She had to keep glancing at Ron to see that he was still interested. It was as though her offer had flipped an invisible switch. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his jeans. Why hadn't he put a hand on the small of her back, or offered her his arm?

She could feel that unsettled questioning churning in him, where not minutes ago there'd been calm and flirtation. Was he nervous?

"I'm this one."

"Right."

It took minute to dig out her keys.

"Um, Hermione."

She turned to him, and stumbled so that he had to lunge to catch her, so that she could feel that strength in his arms as he steadied her.

"Yeah?" Who was she kidding? This was Ron. This was right. Who cared if she let her voice go soft and dewy? Who cared, if she let him take her home? Who –

"Hermione, I'm not coming up stairs."

Suddenly she could stand just fine on her own.

"I'm sorry," he said, driving the point home.

"Is it because of my job? Is because I'm living like a muggle?"

"What? No. Look, Hermione I didn't mean to…" He wore a pained look, like he knew he was going to regret his next words. "And you're drunk."

"I see."

"I can't believe I'm being the responsible one here. Fuck!" He ran a hand through his hair, and it killed her that she wanted that hand on her body even as the smack of rejection burned on her skin.

"You just wanted to make sure I got home – I get it."

"I do want to see you again. I want to talk some more."

"Bully for you."

A flash of a dimple as he grinned at her.

"I've missed our fights."

That's when she felt the butterflies. She needed to get out this now, before she said or did something else that she would be regretting for the rest of her life.

"Well you know where I live now. Try your luck."

All in all, if she hadn't dropped the key, it would have been a smooth exit.

She kicked her shoes into the corner of her little front hall while Crookshanks deigned to open an eye. His disdainful glance seemed say: _you're back I see._

"I want to talk more?" she said aloud. What did that even mean? Why did he want to talk more? What could he want to know about her?

"Maybe he's gay," she said to the room. Crookshanks simply looked on sagely. "Maybe he's gay and he was just being polite, but he still wants to be friends."

Well that would make sense.

Hermione stared long and hard at the curly haired girl in the mirror, wondering over that last thought.

Ron Weasley, the boy she almost couldn't say goodbye to. The way he'd looked at her tonight– like he didn't want to hurt her… As if he had the power to! Well just who did he think he was? What right did he have to look at her as though she'd failed or fallen short? The ass!

What did he know? It was all fine and well to talk about getting back in touch with Ginny, but he'd never had to live through the war the way Hermione had. He'd had family to go back to, and a hero's welcome as a pure blood that fought the tyranny.

It would never be the same for them.

She turned to her bed and stumbled to her knees, feeling around underneath for a slender box she almost never touched. She'd tried to wean herself. To only use it for the truly necessary or the truly fun, like apparating to Venice, or fixing a broken water pipe. She'd managed for so long without, but now? Why not? She was still a witch wasn't she?

A long thin box labeled _Olivanders_ rested in her hands.

At sight of the box Crookshanks began to purr, acting more alert than he'd been in days

The wand felt smooth and right in her grasp, as though the wood had been carved for her and her alone. How long had it been? Months? No, almost a year. She'd gone a whole year without magic. She could feel the energy rushing down her arm to meet its conduit, ready and eager to play.

She pointed the tip of the wand at her left arm, knowing there was only one spell she needed tonight. There, just atop the skin, everyday of the year, lay an illusion charm so fine and delicate that she often forgot it was there.

"Finite Incantatem"

The illusion drifted away, revealing ghostly white scars of gashed text that would never leave her: _**Mudblood.**_


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes: **

Oh my goodness. I'm a new writer, and I am just floored by the positive and warm responses I've received from everyone! Thank you all so much for your kind words.

As you'll have seen from the last paragraph of Chapter 1, I have kept a few elements from the films in my work. On the whole though, this story is more influenced by the books. In case you were curious.

Also, okay, I can't promise 20 pages per chapter every time, but Chapter 2 seemed to just keep going! Grab a glass/cup of something yummy and settle in.

**Chapter Two **

_Idiot, idiot, idiot, _Ron berated himself hours later, staring at the ceiling above his bed.

He should have staked out the blonde. It was a simple intelligence reconnaissance drill. All he had to do was pick a target, engage, collect the data and get out! He was authorized to use to mildest of obliviation spells, but only if necessary.

He should have been at the office right now finishing up a report on everything he'd learned, but no. No, he'd failed any sort of data collection and he was going to have to explain that to the Department Head, Alan Williamson, come Monday.

He should have gone after the blonde! Didn't he know that by now? He always got in too deep when he went after curly-haired girls. Even just thinking over body language and tone, the blonde had been a more available target as well. _Idiot. _No. No, he _always _had to go for the curly girl, didn't he?

Ron sighed to himself in the dark. He knew why those curls were his weak spot, too. The truth was raw inside him, hanging its head in sheepish shame. He'd been hoping it was _her_.

The moment he saw that head of curls leave the British Immigration Offices, he'd been hoping, which was ridiculous. He was an Auror, for fuck-sake! He didn't have to moon and hope. If he'd really wanted to, he could have found Hermione years ago.

So why hadn't he?

_She left. She chose_. That was always the nasty reality that surfaced. She didn't want people to know what she was up to.

She could have gotten in touch, if she'd wanted to. After ten years and not so much as an owl at Christmas or even a 'Congratulations' to Harry and Ginny when they'd had James. It was pretty clear just how much she cared about staying in touch.

If Hermione didn't want to be in their lives anymore, then… well… then what was the point of learning what she was up to? Too much time had passed. Everyone had moved on. Even Ron had moved on. He'd certainly had his share of relationships. He did just fine for himself.

She barely popped into his thoughts.

Only…

Only, if a head of curls turned up in a case...

Well then he wondered about Hermione, didn't he? He wondered, and he remembered how things used to be, and - and then he did his fucking job and got on with his life.

God, Ron was kind of glad he was alone. He could practically hear Harry or Justin explaining just how pathetic that was – following up on the curls.

_Who're you hoping for? _Ron could just imagine Justin asking with an annoyingly cocked eyebrow.

_Fuck off. We all have our types_, he imagined he'd say in response.

Then they would carry on and grab a pint or something.

This time had been different though. It had been _her_ – really her. She'd invited him upstairs! How was that possible? Merlin's wand, what were the odds? In one sentence, she'd made him ten years younger. She'd turned him inside out.

It was almost a saving grace that she was so drunk and that he was working. Could anything have possibly compared to the deluded fantasies of his teenage self? That just wasn't fair to either of them. Not to mention, if he'd broken protocol, if he'd been a selfish prick and gone upstairs with drunk Hermione, what happened after? Breakfast? Would he see her again- would she want him to? What if she disappeared again?

Through his swirling thoughts of self-deprecation that undone top button of hers popped into his mind. That blouse had hugged her figure just right, hadn't it? He could still feel the whisper of her hand on his knee, and his own hands on her the smooth skin of her upper arms.

Under the sheets he felt his body responding to the mere echo of her.

He hadn't expected it to feel exactly the same as when they were teenagers. Ever since Ginny's wedding he'd been prepared to face the rose-coloured tinting of their Hogwarts days. He thought that he'd put that unfinished thread of their lives to rest, but… but it was the same.

No, it was more. It was potent. It was as though the years had built up into a crackling pressure around them, so that Hermione's little half smile almost made him ache. He wanted to hear her voice, and at the same time he wanted to push her against the wall and kiss the Hell out of her.

He ran a hand through his hair. Yep, this was going to make everything so much more complicated. He had a job to do, and if tonight was any indicator, none of it was going to get done with Hermione in the picture.

It was like Harry and Ginny's wedding all over again. He'd been living with Susan Bones at the time. It had already been three years since Hermione had left without so much as a word of goodbye. If Ron hadn't been the best man that day, if he hadn't been there with Susan, he'd have taken a seat at Hermione's table and chewed her out right then and there.

_Single-minded focus_ was the praise he'd received the week before at his final Auror-Basic Training exams. He hadn't understood it until that night at the wedding – also the night Susan started to push him away.

Okay, there was nothing to be accomplished in pointless speculation. He had a job to do and that was what mattered. Lives were on the line. If he could just get his head in the game then he could use Hermione as an asset. She already understood the magical world.

He was a professional. He had this under control.

Starting tomorrow.

* * *

><p>Hermione's mobile trilled. She'd been dreaming of a transfiguration exam where she had to change a tent into a manor with a garden. When her ringtone burst through she was adding the azaleas.<p>

It took a groggy moment to realize that the mobile was right next to her head and another groggy moment of realizing that she was almost too hungover to push 'talk'.

She batted at the screen in broad strokes, while whimpering to the room in general. When her hand connected with the little piece of technology a small burst of red and gold sparks ignited in the air around her skin and a voice from the other end of phone started to babble into the room while Crookshanks looked on in disapproval.

"Hermione? I hope you're upstairs, because you never told me you went to someone else's place, which means that I can safely assume we're still on for Charity-shop-Saturday'. Also, it's almost gone noon, AND I'm bringing up coffee so you'd be better be happy to see me… as soon as I can coordinate my spare key. Oh, hello!"

Hermione glanced around the room, but whomever Lucy was talking to was on the street bellow.

"Saw you at the club last night, didn't I," Lucy said cheerfully. Hermione could picture Lucy's ponytail bopping a little.

"Yeah, I'm just bringing coffee up to an old friend."

_Oh my God_. A tendril of panic punctured Hermione's thick thoughts. She knew that voice.

"Oh, what a coincidence," Lucy said.

Images of the previous night rushed through Hermione's mind. Ron. Ron's hands gripping her arms. Ron's dimpled smile. Ron and dinner. Ron and the walk home – oh - oh God, Ron rejecting her.

_Oh sweet mother of fuck. What is he doing here? _

She could just picture Ron's dimpled smile as he introduced himself to Luce. A wave of either embarrassment or nausea washed over Hermione.

Lucy, down on the street below meeting Ron for the first time, didn't know any of that though. Lucy probably assumed happy things. Things like: Hermione took a boy home. Whoo! The cute boy went to get her morning-after coffee? Whoo! Keeper!

"Luce," Hermione croaked at the phone, but she got no response. "Luce, no!"

The screen of her phone flashed a yellow banner that said 'muted', and Hermione barely contained the urge to chuck the bloody useless paperweight across the room.

She could already hear the door opening downstairs. Lucy had let Ron into the building.

They would be on her any minute!

Hermione jolted from bed (an action she immediately regretted) and ran for the mirror. She took a minute to throw up, rinsed her mouth and then looked at herself again. The tank top and sleep shorts she could cope with him seeing, but not the morning frizz. She also made a frantic swipe at her raccoon eyes.

Any hair product she'd put in the day before had solidified into a sort of hair putty. The only real cure was a hot shower, but there was simply no time.

Her wand! It lay precariously on the edge of the bathroom sink. She'd never put it away.

Well, what could it hurt?

She reactivated the illusion charm on her forearm and zapped herself with what she hoped was an anti-frizz charm. Both actions felt as fluid as breathing, even after a year, which was something she had no time to dwell on. She tucked her wand back into the Olivander's box and all but threw it under her bed, just as the door to her apartment opened.

Her heart was already racing, and then she saw him again, Ron. Her heart practically tripped over itself, jumping to her throat.

_Shit_. _Seriously? _It hadn't been the wine or the gin, or the thrill of the club? No, apparently it was Ron. Even in a casual slouch, Ron somehow stood tall, with tan dress pants hanging off his hips, and with a fitted black t-shirt to remind her of how strong his arms were despite how lean he looked.

She could feel his eyes slide over her bare legs.

_Good. Serves him right._

"Guess you scored two lattes," Lucy bubbled, helping herself to a seat in the kitchen, just out of sight. Hermione suspected that she was being given some privacy, just in case.

Ron looked at Hermione a little sheepishly. "I took a guess," he said while handing her a warm paper cup that smelled of bitter espresso. "And a toasted tomato sandwich," he added, filling her other hand with a paperbag that smelled of grains and pepper.

"Thank you," she managed. She felt a little stunned.

She hadn't missed anything last night, had she? He'd turned her down. Why had Ron turned up at her apartment?

_I want to talk some more_, he'd said. Was that it?

She felt her brow furrowing.

"How are you feeling," he asked, bringing her back from her spiraling thoughts.

For the briefest of moment, Hermione thought about saying something flirty, like _nothing I can't handle_, or _wouldn't you like to know_, but another wave of nausea was starting to roll in.

"Hung-over as fuck."

A chuckle escaped him, and she couldn't help but notice that dimple. They were standing so close that his clear blue eyes were boring into her, making her feel sixteen, and making her wish, of all things, that Harry would appear from around the corner and brake the tension before she did something stupid.

But Ron did it for her.

Ron took her face in his hands, running a gentle thumb just on the side of her jaw, making her ache inside. Then, maybe because of the pleading look in her eyes, his lips found hers and brushed them with a vicious softness, so that her whole body was suddenly on alert and awake, and so that she had to focus very hard on not dropping her coffee.

"Good morning." His dimple twitched near the corner of his mouth.

If she hadn't been swimming in the lingering haze of hangover, she might have slapped him. She might have pulled him down for a deeper kiss. She would never know.

"Give it a minute," he said with one suggestive waggle of his eyebrows. Then he turned to join Lucy in the little kitchen.

Hermione took a moment to find a home for her coffee and sandwich, when she suddenly felt a bright and bubbling tingle start form her lips and then radiate along her skin. Her head suddenly felt clear.

She'd felt that sensation before… Pepper-upper potion?

"Do you need to hop in the shower, or are you ready to go," asked Lucy. She'd draped one leg casually over the other and was nursing her own coffee. She seemed utterly unconcerned by Ron's presence.

"Um, yeah, just a second," Hermione replied.

"I'll get out of you hair now," Ron said, standing the kitchen doorframe. "I was really only dropping by to see if you're free."

_And to send me some mixed signals, obviously_.

"I can drop by later though, in the afternoon - if you're not doing anything. We could grab a coffee." He glanced at the two lattes she'd barely touched. "Okay, maybe not coffee. A pint? My treat."

Hermione caught a glimpse of Lucy leaning so that her face was visible in the kitchen doorway and could be seen just behind Ron.

"Oh my God!" Lucy mouthed. "Say yes!"

But, why did he want to see her again? Her head was still reeling from that kiss. What was he playing at? Was this his way of letting her know he was interested?

Hadn't she already decided he was gay? She'd talked it over with Crookshanks.

Oh Merlin's firm wand, her heart was jack hammering and she still hadn't answered!

"It was Ron, right?" Lucy asked, still leaning back so that she looked like a disembodied head, hovering in the doorway.

"Yes."

"Honestly, we're just strolling around the shops. You are welcome to join if you'd like. Make a day of it."

Ron glanced to Hermione, unsure, and looking out of his element.

_Good_, she though rather viciously. He'd been far too cool and confident in the past twelve hours. It would probably be healthy for her to see him out of his comfort zone – put things back in perspective.

"Yes, come," she said sweetly. "I won't be a minute throwing some proper clothes on."

Okay, she dressed up – just a little. It was only a skirt and a fitted button-down top, but she picked the shorter skirt on purpose. It was frivolous, and deep down she hated herself for it, especially since he'd rejected her last night.

Then again he'd kissed her, hadn't he? Although maybe that was just a subtle way to slip her a bit of potion – and – and when was the last time she'd felt this flustered?

"How are you feeling, now?" Ron asked. He slowed his pace so that he could walk along with Hermione while Lucy scanned shops up ahead, checking which one looked the most promising.

"Much more alert," Hermione said curtly, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.

"It's a modified pepper upper potion," he explained. "Gelled into a balm."

"I figured that out."

He couldn't help but smile. Of course she had.

"You could have simply handed me the balm."

"With your friend watching?"

"She wouldn't have known what it was."

"Why would I hand you lip balm? It would have looked strange. And what if she'd asked to borrow some?"

All right, he had a point, barely. He'd still exploited the situation, and her eyes seemed to tell him so.

Ron felt his lips press together while he mulled. Maybe he'd misread the situation.

"I'm sorry." His voice was an echo of a younger, less confident Ron, as though she'd taken the wind from his sales. "I shouldn't have presumed."

"You shouldn't have." She agreed with a biting tone.

He dug his hands deeper into his pockets. He'd really screwed this up and he hadn't even brought up the Ministry. "Do you want me to leave? I really didn't mean to invite myself along."

To her own surprise, Hermione's immediate response was to touch her hand to his, as though to stop him from disapparating.

Her skin against his acted like another dose of Pepper Upper Potion. Her whole body was suddenly wide-awake. They may as well have been back in her apartment, standing in her bedroom, instead of in the middle of a London sidewalk. For all the care she'd put into her outfit, she suddenly wanted nothing more than for those nimble fingers to unbutton her blouse. She wanted to be taken in his arms.

She wanted to be taken. Period.

She let her hand fall limply to her side. "You don't have to go. Just stop giving mixed signals."

Ron's brow furrowed.

Really? Did she have to spell it out for him?

"Hermione, I said I didn't want to come upstairs. I didn't say that I don't want to see you again."

Maybe she was used to more subtlety from men. Maybe it was because she couldn't imagine Ron looking at her like she was being thick. Maybe it was a combination. Whatever the reason, Hermione found her cheeks flaming red at the mention of last night, of her over-eagerness, and his sensible actions

"Um, so what's this all about with the charity shops? What are we looking for?"

Grateful for the change in topic Hermione explained. "It's sort of like antiquing."

"Okay. Is there something you're looking for?"

"Never. That's sort of the point."

Ron nodded, although it seemed as if he didn't follow.

"Okay, if we're giving full disclosure, I'm always hunting for books."

"Of course you are."

"Well some things never change," she said more quietly than she'd intended.

It was more fun than he'd expected. In fact, it was just fun, period. Lucy would hold up outrageous things like a child's shirt with a blue train printed on it and the words: Charleston Choo-choo-choo! Then the three of them would debate over who should buy the shirt.

"The blue would bring out your eyes Hermione," Lucy argued.

"But Lucy, blondes and blue go so well. You should get it. Or…" she grabbed the shirt and held it in front of Ron. "Ron and I used to take the train to school; maybe Ron should grab it. Memories."

"Yeah, but that train was red. If it was a red train on the shirt then I'd _have _own it."

"It would do wonders for your hair," Lucy added.

"You should see me when I wear orange."

"Okay, so maybe not the train shirt," Hermione conceded, scanning the shelves. "But no one could live without a Christmas themed bed skirt!" She snagged the offending flouncy fabric and brandished it. The red bed skirt was decorated with tiny green Christmas trees and mistletoe berries.

"I think my Gran already owns that," Ron admitted.

* * *

><p>The day eased on, Lucy eventually picking up a pair of paisley patterned running shoes. Ron, despite himself, had felt the deep urge to buy a rose coloured glass bell that fit in the palm of his hand. Hermione was thrilled to discover a new political science writer who covered international, current events of the past decade. Sometimes fitting in took research.<p>

Before she'd even dared apply to university, Hermione'd spent the summer listening to music of the past two decades and trying to arm herself with opinions on music videos.

It had been her choice.

That day. The day after the war, when the world seemed to release a long held breath, she'd apparated from Hogsmead to a heap of charred rubble.

Rubble.

Her childhood home had been turned to ash. The bank said it was a gas leak. Some sort of pipeline situation, but she could almost smell the residue of dark magic. It tasted of metal in the back of her throat.

They'd come looking for her. The Death Eaters. They'd done exactly what she feared the most, and she didn't know if it was relief or despair that had left her sobbing in the middle of what had once been in her living room.

That was when Chaz found her. That was the summer she crashed on the couch of one of her neighbourhood childhood friends. That was the summer she made up her mind. Being in the muggle world was simpler. There didn't need to be anything else.

Why not university? Why not Chaz? There was already a history of flirtatious summers, and a history of parents sipping pints in the backyard, or long walks with Chaz - where going to the corner store took an hour.

She knew how to live like a muggle. She'd done it for ten years before Hogwarts. She liked the cinema and curlywhirls chocolate bars like anyone else, and somehow being with Chaz just made it all feel that much more possible, that much more easy – as though magic and murder and blood-feuds were a far off fairytale meant for her bookshelf.

Chaz was real. His kisses were real. Her grief was real. His comfort was real.

That was the summer she gave up the girl of Gryffindor and accepted the woman of London.

She'd had to master the Internet, if only to give herself a rundown on the television shows that would surely be talked about in residence. Then even after all the work she'd put in, her floor mates still sat her down to marathon rom-coms she'd never seen or even heard of.

She found herself wondering then, as she wondered now, if Arthur had ever shown any movies to his kids. Did Ron 'get' some film quotes? Did he know who'd won X-Factor?

He would have denied it, but Hermione was certain that Ron was enjoying all the muggle trinkets in the secondhand shops just as much as his dad would have.

Ron caught Hermione giving him a thoughtful glance and had to suppress the urge to say something flirtatious. It was good that Lucy had been there this morning. So much for playing it cool and doing his job. He'd nearly blown it, not two seconds in the door!

He really did have to get it together. He needed to speak with Hermione alone, explain the situation. The longer they cavorted about as friends, or even simply flirted, he was making the situation worse. He was leading her on.

He should have said, no, to visiting the shops. He admitted it.

Still, he couldn't deny how much fun he was having. It was almost like being back in Hogsmeade on school outings, but he couldn't lose focus. The Ministry would be expecting a report sooner rather than later.

"You didn't have to treat us to lunch," Lucy said as she scanned the menu. "Although it's been lovely to have more time to meet such an old friend of Hermione's."

"Don't mention it. It's nice to meet a new friend of hers, get a picture of the present."

"Absolutely." Lucy's mobile buzzed from the depths of her purse. As she glanced at the call display, Lucy's brow furrowed. "Sorry. I'll be right back."

The moment Lucy stood from the table, Hermione couldn't help her hands fidgeting with a napkin. It had been ten years, and she was sitting in a muggle café with Ron Weasley. Without the haze of alcohol…

"This is surreal," she confessed.

"No kidding."

Their eyes met and they couldn't help but share a smile, which Ron turned into a deep breath, as though preparing for a speech.

"Hermione, I'd been hoping to do this properly, over some drinks, just us, but I have to be honest with you."

He waited for some sort of reaction, a furrowing of the brow or pursing of the lips, but she kept her face calmly neutral, which was somehow more intimidating.

"Okay, the truth, because – well because the truth is important in this situation. It wasn't a coincidence that we bumped into each other last night. I was there on business."

"Pardon?"

"I didn't know who you were, or that you were you. I was just trying to make contact with someone in a muggle immigration office –"

"So you already knew what I do for a living." Despite the last lingerings of summer heat, Hermione felt a chill spreading under her skin.

"Huh?"

"Last night, over dinner, while we played catch-up, you were just playing dumb. You already knew about my life."

"No, when I realized it was you that I'd been tailing from the office I doubted myself. I wasn't sure if you really worked there or if, I don't know, maybe you're another assigned Auror, undercover. Maybe you really _are_ part of the Department of Mysteries. I was trying to feel out the situation."

"Well I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I just work there. I process paperwork and take tea breaks, and sneak long lunches with my coworkers."

"Which is why I really need to speak with you about your work."

"So what did I miss?" Lucy plopped down in her spot before Hermione had a chance to respond.

"Just running through the ex list." Ron shrugged, and Hermione noted how calm and casual Ron sounded, so at ease with lying.

"Oooh, interesting. I just added a new one to my list, unfortunately. That's what the phone call was about… Marcus Addler. He wants more 'space'." She raised her glass as she said the words, and Hermione and Ron clinked glasses with her.

"His 'friend'?" Hermione asked.

"Yeah, Marcus took the morning off work to help with the guy's immigrations paper work. I mean, really? It's just a little too much. I hope they're very happy together, and I hope that that paperwork comes through my desk so that I can reject it!"

The lunch seemed to unfold at an endlessly slow rate. Hermione found that she could scarcely keep up her end of any conversation.

She felt exposed. Ron had followed her. He wanted to talk to her about her job? Her job? How did she even know that this was Ronald Weasley? What if this was someone taking Polyjuice potion.

She pushed that last though from her mind, before the swirls of panic descended.

It was almost a miracle when Ron finally tallied up the bill.

"Are you walking, Hermione," Lucy asked, gathering up her purse. "Did you want to split a cab or–"

"I'll walk you home," Ron said like a hurriedly, already snatching up Hermione's bags from under her chair. Lucy gave Hermione a raised eyebrow, which Hermione chose to ignore.

"It was lovely to meet you Lucy."

"You too. Hermione, text me once you're home."

Hermione nodded, and added, "We'll have to have some drinks and raz on your ex soon."

Hermione took up a brisk pace that had Ron jogging to catch up. When he finally did, she picked up her pace again. Ron could see red patches of anger and maybe embarrassment on her cheeks.

"You didn't _have _to come today. I would have said yes to pints later. You didn't even need to drop by my apartment. You could have left me a note or something."

"I know. It was unprofessional of me, but I wanted to come. I liked today," he admitted.

She slowed her pace; reminding herself how easily lies could sound on his lips.

"I didn't mean to throw you, over lunch, but I didn't want you to get the wrong idea. I do have to speak with you professionally."

"Says you."

Ron stopped in his tracks and Hermione only noticed several paces later. She turned around and waited. Although for what, she didn't know.

"You followed me from my workplace," she said at last. "That sounds suspicious. How can I really trust that you're an Auror – or – or even Ron!" Her voice was had gone strangely high-pitched, and she found that she was shaking.

Ron was looking at her with cool blue eyes, but there was something calculating about them.

"My name is Ronald Bilius Weasley. My favourite team is the Chudley Canons. I used to have a rat named Scabbers that turned out to be Peter Pettigrew."

Hermione still looked unconvinced.

"In second year, you added cat's fur to your portion of polyjuice potion. In fourth year, you were obsessed with house-elf rights and I took Padma Patil to the Yule Ball. Am I Ron yet? Any of this sounding convincing enough? I can eat a whole piece of toast in one bite. I used to make up my Divination homework. I'm terrified of spiders."

Despite herself, a giggle burst from her. "What? Still?

Ron gave her a small smile, and jumped on his opportunity to explain. "I did follow you from work, yes. It's part of muggle reconnaissance protocols. You target an individual and find an opening to engage them."

"So I was just some fluke. You are supposed to be chatting-up some muggle-girl in that club." Would he have taken _that_ girl to bed?

"Look, I get that you're really mad about this, but yeah, it was a fluke. I'm really glad it happened though," he added, taking a step forward.

"Why?"

Ron's brow furrowed. "Why? Maybe because I haven't spoken to you since –"

"No, I mean why did you have to contact someone in muggle immigrations? I mean, I'm not agreeing to anything, you understand, but I'll listen."

They walked a few steps in silence. Ron could scarcely believe that with all his cock-ups, he may actually be able to use Hermione as his source!

"Here's the gist. I have some questions for your office, and it would be much easier if I could ask them to someone who knows about our world and our history. We don't usually get that luxury, and we usually have to wipe memories, but if you would consent to questioning –"

"What sort of questions."

"Classified."

"You're kidding me."

"I'm not. I can only tell you that we're trying to close our knowledge gap on a particular person."

They were coming up to the door of her flat, and if she didn't agree, then that would be it. Ron would have to find a new contact.

"I can promise that it shouldn't take longer than a few hours and – and then I'll vanish, and you can go about your life undisturbed."

The very thought twisted a ten-year old knot in his gut.

"Unless the questions require you to do a more thorough investigation."

"That is a risk, but I would make sure that part of the investigation doesn't include you."

"Just some questions? That's all you want from me?"

They'd stopped outside Hermione flat. A soft late summer breeze ruffled her hair and skirt, so that Ron could feel his hands itching to drop the bags he was carrying, and feel the softness of that skirt's fabric crushed in his grip.

"Fuck. Hermione," He almost seemed to groan in frustration for his next words. "I'm pretty sure you can guess that that's not all I want. The thing is – I mean, maybe after all the questioning… once I've sorted everything out for my department, I could take you to dinner."

Hermione was looking at him with a soft, brown gaze. The angry patches on her cheeks seemed to have shifted into a blush. "And I want to cook you breakfast the next morning," he added more softly, but just as firmly. His ears were the same colour as his hair, but his gaze was steady and Hermione found that she'd lost all sensation in her limbs. It was a miracle she was standing.

"Ron?"

"Yes."

Her brown eyes found his clear blue ones.

"Fuck it."

She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled his face to hers, lips parting to meet each other. Where his kiss had been slow and teasing that morning, he was frenzied and hurried now, unable to taste enough of her, shocked by her action.

Hermione found herself suddenly weightless, as Ron lifted her by the thighs and pressed her back against the front of her building. The pressure and heat of his hands on her bare legs sent a dark thrill through her, causing a rasped moan to escape her.

His lips didn't stay on hers, but needed to explore, tracing kisses along her jaw and her neck, almost searing her with hot yearning.

Passers by whistled. One girl shouted: _Get a room!_ A little old couple actually applauded them, but it was all a blur.

Finally, Ron pulled away, his cheeks flushed, his eyes glassy with want.

"Bedroom?" he asked

"Bedroom," she nodded.

She suddenly felt the pressure of being pulled along through his apparation with a _pop_.

"We could have taken the stairs," she laughed. They now stood in her open concept living space, Ron still holding her up.

"We could have."

He put her down, and this time he really took in her space. The walls were mostly lined with bookshelves, and the open space that housed her bedroom and her living room was a painted a soft sage green.

It was… it felt distinctly un-magical.

There was Tele-smission in her living room, for a start, and not a one of her bookshelves seemed to hold a familiar title. They were foreign concepts like: _Discography of 1980s Rock_, _Cooking Curry For Dummies_, and _A Beginner's Guide to Software_. It all felt sort of muggle.

How had she been living? Why had she pushed away from the magical world? Was her job more than just an experiment? Did she really want to live outside the magical world? But then again, who didn't have unresolved issues? How long had it taken George to re-open Weasley's Wizard Wheezes after Fred had passed?

Ron looked around again, taking in the fact that there wasn't so much as stray sock strewn on the floor somewhere, and Crookshanks (she still had Crookshanks!) was curled up in a nook on her bookshelf. He'd started purring as soon as they'd apparated.

The apartment was different, but it felt like her, and with that thought, he absentmindedly, and more lazily, kissed Hermione again.

"You should know that I never do this. Not sex I mean, just not this soon. I'm like a serial monogamist. That's what Ginny calls me."

He kissed her again, this time slowly, and sucking ever so slightly on her bottom lip. "Take off you top," he added.

Hermione was not used to people telling her what to do, but his words, made her body feel alive and on fire. She let the airy, lemon coloured material flutter to the floor, and slid her skirt down to follow its mate. Soon she was standing in nothing but matching periwinkle lingerie, whispers of lace and satin on her skin, that had Ron counting his blessings.

_Tap, tap, tap_.

They both turned to the window near her bed to see a tawny owl, with an official looking scroll in its clutch.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me. I'm so sorry." Ron crossed to the window and let in the bird. "Its for me."

"I would imagine so. I don't get owls."

"Right. Do you have anything I can give him as a treat? He won't leave unless he's fed."

"Crackers?"

"Fine."

With the owl on its way, Hermione threw a housecoat over her lingerie. Somehow she could feel that the mood had changed, and whatever wave of impulse she'd coaxed out of Ron had been buried once more.

It was as though the Ron she only managed to glimpse when they played Wizards' Chess had become his default setting. As though the distant, analyst was the official surface layer. His eyes had gone hard, focused… and she had to fight back the deep urge to bring that intense focus back onto her.

"So, what was so important?"

Ron sat on the edge of her sofa, pouring over the scrap of cryptic parchment, his face blanching.

"Shit."

His face turned to hers and she could see real concern in his eyes, as though he was resisting the very real urge to touch her again, but to comfort. "I'm so sorry, but I have to go into the office. This," he waved the parchment, "changes everything."

He ran a frustrated hand through his hair so that the ends stuck up at odd angles. It almost looked like his head was on fire.

He looked at her again, on the edge of saying something more, then for a flicker of a moment his eyes darted to her forearm.

"Everything I said about questions, I don't know if… I'll owl you."

"You could always just pop in."

He looked startled and pleased by the suggestion.

"Okay."

He reached into one of the shopping bags and unwrapped the little glass bell from its tissue paper.

"I need you to hold this."

He placed the bell in the palm of Hermione's hand and then placed his hand under hers. He pulled his wand from his pocket and swished it over the trinket in little figure-eight movements.

"_Cantáte sirenis_."

"The Siren's call?"

"Its like an emergency contact. I'll hear this bell whenever you're the one to ring it."

"I know what it is Ron. I also know that it's used by Aurors if they think someone's in danger."

"Of course you do," he half laughed. "More importantly, it's a fast way of getting in touch. Much less invasive than fire-calling."

"Okay." She didn't look convinced. "I guess I'll ring you later then."

He nodded and disapparated.

Hermione sat on the edge of her bed with the little bell in her hand, feeling a shiver of fear that she had managed to keep at bay for ten years.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Notes**

Hi everyone. I'm sorry that this Chapter is a little later and somewhat shorter than Chapter two. I've been getting over a nasty flu and then I was in a friend's wedding. This Chapter kept getting delayed as a result, unfortunately.

The good news though, is that this Chapter gets us to the meat of the story: what Ron is working on.

You'll also, hopefully be happy to know that Chapter Four is well underway.

**Chapter Three **

When Ron was first welcomed into the folds of the Aurors ranks, he had to admit that he had had some fantasies about the department. He'd pictured a glowing wall of strange magical artifacts that an Auror could arm himself with for any given mission. He'd imagined a wardrobe full of disguises. He'd even wondered if the Auror department had it's own Floo Network, separate and more accurate than the ordinary, everyday wizards' network.

Sadly, while the Auror's council room could easily be described as a little bit ominous, above all else, it just seemed to be rather practical. Each corner of the room was armed with high-level sneak-a-scopes, and, the walls were laced with an abundance of intricate soundproofing spells that made the room hum. On the wall farthest from the entrance to the department, was an international map with different coloured flag pins, each denoting projects and assignments, as well as each Auror and their assigned missions. On his first day, Ron had found most of this fascinating, but several years in, it was all a bit ordinary. In fact he'd quickly learned that no amount of magical aid could compare to the la pièce de résistance in the centre of the council room, which was nothing more than a squat, round table made of dark wood and strewn with paperwork and folios. Of course, in the centre of it all was a bottomless pot of tea and a never ending plate of biscuits.

This was the life-breath of the department, where Auror's clashed and collaborated. This was where great ideas and breaks in cases came from. All the long-range sneak-a-scopes in the world couldn't measure up to an all-nighter of strategizing.

With special clearance, Ron apparated directly into the council room, already picturing the bottomless teapot in his mind's eye.

"Weasley, nice of you to join us." The voice belonged to a short, hard-faced man with piercing grey eyes and dark hair flecked with grey around the temples. Sometimes it was hard to tell if Williamson was joking. As head of the Auror department, Alan Williamson, a man who seemed to live off tea breaks and who possibly slept under his desk, always had a haggard look about him. Subsequently, his tone was hard to read.

Ron decided to take the positive assumption that Williamson was genuinely happy to see him, and took the liberty of helping himself to a cup of tea.

He took a seat between his two cohorts, Neville Longbottom and Justin Finch-Fletchley. Justin was not unrecognizable from his Hogwarts day, but with more depth to his eyes and less curl in his hair, as though the Auror life had straightened it somehow.

Neville had the same seriousness around his own eyes, but then again, that solid, unwavering gaze had been in the making since they were kids. For all that Neville had been a late bloomer, he'd always had potential. It literally stared you in the face.

Neville glanced up, as if Ron had inadvertently interrupted a conversation in process.

"Hello Ron. Williamson, you promised me –"

"I know Longbottom, I know. I just need you for this last one, and then you can retire to Hogwarts and play with your plants."

"Hannah isn't going to be pleased," Neville muttered, more to himself than the room. "She had a mini-break in Bath all sorted."

Justin caught Ron's eye and they shared a smile. They had both seen the good Hannah had done for Neville's stress levels. Ron imagined that Justin even new some of the surprises Hannah had organized for the mini-break. As far as Ron knew, Ernie, Justin and Hannah were still quite close. Justin had probably even had a hand in planning some of Neville's holiday.

"Alright," Williamson sighed, "You all have yer cuppa? Good, you're going to need it." He took another deep breath as though resigning himself to the situation. "St. Mungo's has finally ponied up. A medi-witch was summoned to Azakban six months after the Lestrange's interrogation after the first war. The prisoner was also provided with post-natal care visits for two months."

The words sank in.

Neville, Ron and Justin couldn't look at each other.

The child was no longer hypothetical. They were no longer hunting a ghost or a mere suspicion.

Finally Justin was the first to slam his mug on the table. "Why wasn't this reported when the witch went into labour?"

"Maybe the medi-witch was a You-Know-Who sympathizer. Maybe she simply cared for the child and didn't want to run the risk of Ministry involvement." Williamson shrugged.

"Is the medi-witch available for questioning? Do we have a statement?" Ron asked.

"It seems she died two years ago. We are working with old documents and our instincts." Williamson said that last sentence as though the very words were an affront to Auror-training.

Another moment of pregnant silence took hold. Everything about this case felt like it was hooked up to trip-wires and triggers. Nothing felt straightforward.

Worse yet, they all knew what wasn't being said. Support cells had been strangely active over the past few months. _The Prophet _was quick to smother the incidents as misunderstandings.

Statements and apologies, like: _that anti-muggle sentiment was issued by a low-level staffer who has been let go, _were rampant. So much easier to beg forgiveness than not commit the offence in the first place, apparently.

_The Quibbler_ on the other hand seemed determined to smother the fear mongering with articles decidedly focused on non-political issues, such as their latest week long exposé on Yetis.

Ron refused to be coddled. Not a few weeks ago Ron had had to take down a girl only three years his senior, who was torturing a muggle-born wizard. She sported the Dark Mark and after calling Ron a blood traitor, her final words before being marched off Azkaban were: We will rise again!

It seemed to Ron that regardless of who was there to lead the cause, there was indeed a 'cause' that these blood-purists were all rallying around.

_The Daily Prophet_ had issued a cry for more compassion and awareness for those suffering mental illness, and pledged to work alongside St. Mungo's at this difficult juncture in the ongoing development of the wizarding world community in post-war times.

The truth was staring them all in the face and no one, especially not the Ministry wanted to call a duck a duck.

Ron shivered to think what would happen if another charismatic face appeared in the blood-purist cells, even just a name to rally around. And now there was strong possibility that could happen.

"We've found bad wizards on less," Justin said as if only to boost the morale in the room. His words brought Ron back to the present.

Neville's face had gone slightly flushed, and Ron couldn't help but notice Neville was gripping his trousers with white-knuckled fists.

"Williamson," Neville began in something of hushed tone, laced with temper. "May I clarify the situation? You put a hold on my retirement paperwork so that I could put my life and my wife's life on the line, hunting down the bastard offspring of the woman responsible for my parents'-" but he couldn't finish and he didn't need to.

Williamson looked ashamed enough without the mention of Alice and Frank.

"Longbottom you know I wouldn't ask if I didn't think we needed the best."

"It's a conflict of interest!"

"I thought you'd like the satisfaction of bringing in the son of that woman."

Ron cut off Neville before he said something that would get him fired before he had a chance to retire. "So we know it's a boy?" He paused for a moment. His brow furrowing "Was a boy?"

"Until we know otherwise, we're to assume the boy lived. Yes, it's a boy. It was the one helpful medical detail on the St. Mungo's report. A report, that I should add, is a copy. The original mysteriously vanished two years ago. We're racing against You-Know-Supporters with everything to gain, and nothing to loose."

"We're not totally in the dark. We know we're after a boy and we can determine his age," Justin added. "He's only a year younger than the three of us… which is a more than a little unsettling."

"Bella-bitch Lestrange had a son, and he could have gone to school with us," Neville almost spat.

Ron couldn't help but share that squeamish feeling. Somehow it was different with You-Know-Who's followers being linked to his parents' generation. To think that some of the worst of the worst who'd ever lived had to tried to breed a new generation. Had tried to create heirs to their dark and twisted world… Well you only had to think about how messed up Draco and his pals had been…

It made it all more of a threat somehow.

"Do we know who the father was?" Ron heard himself asking, half-heartedly, and fearing the answer. Everyone had suspected that Bellatrix's relationship with You-Know-Who was more than business.

"We don't." Williamson confirmed. "But you all understand why this hunt is so important, and what it could mean to the You-Know-Supporters. Our one lead is the Lestrange contacts in Eastern Europe, and possibly what's left of the Malfoy family. I suspect the child was kept safely smuggled out of England as a last resort – Narcissa Malfoy may know something about that. She's listed as the child's guardian and next of kin." As he mentioned the name Malfoy, Williamson turned to Ron. "Are you comfortable taking the lead with the Malfoys?"

Ron nodded.

Williamson continued. "Finch-Fletchley has already been compiling student registration lists at Durmstrang going back seventeen years. My gut tells me that if that boy was raised in a support cell, he may be their second sweep, a replacement for You-Know-Who, and considering the recent movements we've seen, I imagine they'll be trying to move him into England soon. We need to get started. We need names."

Williamson took a pause to savour a sip of tea.

"Weasley, what information do you have for me on muggle immigration?"

Despite the horrors they were pouring over, and the new reality of who they were hunting down, at the mention of the muggle immigration office, Ron's thoughts darted to Hermione's apartments. His mind suddenly swan with images of Hermione in her periwinkle lingerie. "Do you honestly think that anyone associated with You-Know-Who, would _really _sully themselves with muggle paperwork," Justin had crossed his arms, unimpressed.

"That's exactly what I think. They're smart. They would use any system that they think we, the Ministry, will overlook."

The three Aurors nodded. It was a good call, and why Williamson was the perfect replacement for Kingsley Shacklebolt as the head of the Auror Department.

Ron could feel the others in the room focus their attention on him. He had to be honest. It was his job to report, but what about exposing Hermione?

"The information I'm about to share cannot leave this table."

"That almost goes without saying," Neville said.

"That's because you haven't heard what I'm about to say. My muggle immigration officer contact is Hermione Granger."

It took a moment for Neville and Justin to pull their jaws off the floor.

"Undesirable Number Four Hermione Granger?" Williamson almost boomed.

"The one-that-got-away Hermione Granger?" Neville was fighting back a smile, and Ron could tell Neville was very seriously debating keeping Hannah in the loop.

"Was she obliviated?" Justin's brow was furrowed. "Is she undercover?"

"No and no. She just works there."

"But this is brilliant," Williamson looked happy for the first time that day. "We can put her on contract. She'll be our eyes on the inside – especially since this is a much bigger task than we'd anticipated. You'll be her contact Weasley. You were traveling with her at the end of the war, weren't you?"

"Yeah Ron, how close were you two?" Justin teased.

Neville gave Ron's shoulder a squeeze. "I can be her contact if you'd like."

"I don't know if it's going to be as easy as that. She's…" _What? Living like a muggle? Wants nothing __to do with the wizarding world? _What was he supposed to say? "I don't know how well she's recovered from the war. I think there's some unresolved PTSD."

"We'll pull up her St. Mungo's records, see what she was treated for after the war," Williamson was nodding as though he was liking his own plan more an more.

"I know for a fact that she was never treated," Ron admitted. "And I highly doubt she'll be open to the idea now."

"Weasley, this isn't up for negotiation. I want her recruited."

"She was singled out as a target and attacked by Bellatrix. I don't think she's likely to jump at the chance to track down a Lestrange offspring."

"That's why it's your job to sell it to her."

Ron hadn't felt his blood boil in years. Not since Fred died. Not since the war. "I will not put her in danger. She could be already be a target! If support groups are rallying, you know very well who'll be on their hit-list."

"Weasley. Where could she be safer than under the supervision of the Auror Department?"

"I want it on record that I think this is an unnecessary risk."

"Noted," Williamson nodded. "Its also a direct order."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Notes**

OMG, I am utterly sorry for the wait on this one. I promise that I did not get board and forget about this wonderful world of FanFic. I promise that I did not stop writing.

Here is my sad, sad tale of woe. The night that I finished editing this chapter, I spilled tea on my laptop. After learning a disturbingly long list of folk-remedies my poor computer spent three days and nights in a bag of rice and was then air dried for another several hours.

All of this was of course to no avail, as my milky and sugary tea had fried my logic board (the computer equivalent of having a heart attack). If you know nothing else about computers, you've probably guessed that the price of replacing your logic board is a decent chunk of the way to buying a new computer.

This is probably the part where I should also mention that I don't back up my work… So I was without my technological lifeline and had no way of accessing my work on another device.

Long story short, I had to invest in a new computer, all while mourning the loss of my baby and having to be constantly reassured by my angelic husband with tech knowledge that my laptop's Hard Drive (i.e. EVERYTHING I'VE EVER WRITTEN) could be easily salvaged, and that my writing was not lost, just 'hard to get to'.

In conclusion, I will now be using the adult version of a sippy-cup (those adorable mason jar tumblers with straws) when drinking near any technology.

So, without further ado, here it is: Chapter Four! I will pound out Chapter Five for all I'm worth to make up for the weeks of silence.

**Chapter Four**

Ron didn't come back to her apartment that afternoon or that evening. Hermione hadn't really expected him to – or maybe she had. Maybe she'd been hoping. He did have to ask some of those Auror questions on behalf of his department, didn't he? He had to see her again, right?

Then again, as he was leaving, hadn't he said that maybe it wasn't necessary? Maybe that meant he didn't need to keep cozying up to her.

_Hermione, stop, _she thought furiously before those thoughts spirraled ridiculously out of control. _He hasn't rejected you. He had work to take care of. You're being melodramatic and ridiculous. _

Was she? She'd seen how smoothly he could lie now. Would he lie to her? Was the passionate, quick-tempered, first-to-sling-words-he'd-later-regret boy now a man of carefully chosen phrases and actions? Was he a man who would use any advantage? That didn't sound like her Ron… but he hadn't really been _her _Ron for ten years, had he?

These thoughts swirled in her mind while she tried to focus on her new book. The words all seemed to blur together. She saw the letters, but she wasn't absorbing any of their information, and after an hour of reading, curled up in her armchair, nursing a glass of white wine, Hermione realized something.

"I'm waiting up for him!"

Her eyes found Crookshanks, half asleep, curled on the edge of her coffee table.

"I see him for what? Half a day? And even with all the reasons I have to believe that he probably isn't going to speak to me again, I'm still a lovesick fourteen year old waiting for a chance to make eye contact when the cute redhead gets in from detention! What is wrong with me?"

Crookshanks seemed to raise a questioning eyebrow, if such a thing was possible for cats.

"Don't give me that look. I have other prospects." She didn't, she could have someone for a night, a weekend, a month even, but she'd never let it go on longer. There were just too many gaps in her knowledge that she could never seem to explain. She could never really let another person all the way in. She didn't connect.

It wasn't as though she was lonely, of course. She had work. She had friends. She had parties and dancing until dawn. She had books and she had Crookshanks. She had a life, a wonderful one. Granted, spending her evening researching muggle current affairs certainly didn't do much to support that argument… sometimes it all felt perfectly normal and lovely… but there were the other times, like tonight, when it all felt like playing dress up.

Maybe that's how Hermione found herself, not an hour later, walking the streets of London in flats, dark jeans and a top that she knew showed off her figure. There was any number of clubs she could have popped into, in that ensemble. She didn't need Ron to make her feel beautiful and wanted. She could have that with anyone.

That's not why she was walking the streets of London, surefooted and with purpose in her stride. No, it wasn't the feeling of being wanted that desired. Ron had made her crave something else. He had reminded her of something that she hadn't missed in a very long time.

_Magic… _

When he'd apparated them up to her apartment, she could feel the tingle of witchcraft under her skin like a rush of adrenaline, like the heady feeling you get after being thoroughly kissed.

That's how she found herself in a corner table at the Leaky Cauldron, keeping her head down and her pint glass full. It wasn't the drink that she wanted. She wanted the taste of something else, of the crackle of something special in the air, something electric. It was like realizing you've only been breathing with half your lungs, and are now finally taking a breath. She had managed a whole year without breaking out her wand, and now she was coming up for air.

Just to hear words like butterbeer and galleons tossed around in conversations had her giddy with energy.

The Leaky Cauldron used to be her secret, her life preserver, her reminder that she could go back if she _really_ wanted to. She'd been coming less and less since Hannah Abbot had taken over. Even though she liked the homey feel that Hannah had brought to the place, Hermione didn't like the idea of being recognized. She even used to come only after putting a temporary enlarging spell on her nose or after using Sleakeazy on her hair. Nothing permanent, just enough to have eyes glancing over her without much thought or notice.

Tonight had been an impulse. Tonight she'd stay at the back and let the shadows do her work.

Sometimes she wondered what would happen if Hannah did recognize her – if anyone recognized her. She'd been gone so long. How could she explain it to anyone? She was still amazed at her joy at seeing Ron. She'd always thought that it would be panic that would course through her, but no, seeing Ron had shifted things, stirred up memories and thoughts long forgotten or long abandoned. The Weasleys; all of them. Harry and Ginny_ –_ they had a baby now!

With a long, cool sip of ale she acknowledged that there was a part of her, a desperate part that wanted to know more about what she'd left behind. It was almost an ache.

Was it too late?

Could she have both worlds? Was it possible?

She found her right hand moving absent-mindedly over the illusion charm on her forearm. There was a reason to stay away, or at least stay less connected. That was a certainty.

Still, it didn't mean that she couldn't enjoy tonight. Tonight she could pretend.

"Sorry I'm late," a middle-aged woman with shoulder length black hair and elegantly pointed features took a seat at the table near Hermione, pecking the table's other occupant on the cheek. The man she'd kissed gave her a half smile and then ran his thumb over the spot her lips had touched. It was an affectionate and rather intimate gesture, and one that had Hermione feeling like a voyeur. She blushed in the dark.

There was something familiar about the man. Something she couldn't quite place – he reminder her of someone in the back of her mind.

The man reached across the table and took the woman's hands in his own, causing the end of a tattoo to peek out from under his shirtsleeve - a small snakes' head that Hermione recognized only too well.

Her body went on cold alert. Her brain did an instant checklist of curses and counter curses, and was ready with an apparation spot in mind. _The war is over_, she tried to remind herself._ That man has probably moved on from the philosophies he once followed. _

She took a steadying breath. This was a chance to test herself. If the magical world truly could leave its prejudices behind, then there was hope. This man was just that, a man. He was a wizard with a favourite dessert and a childhood and people who loved him. She didn't need to be afraid.

Still, she had a surprisingly steady hand clutching her wand under the table.

The woman at the other table brushed her thumb over (his tattoo? Unclear) the snakehead on the tattoo and looked sorrowfully into the man's eyes.

"The King is dead. Long live the King."

Hermione's heart began to jackhammer. The sound in the room was suddenly turned down until all she could hear was her own raced breathing.

Long live the King_…_

_He's dead. He's dead. I saw him die. I saw him die!_

Long live the King_…_

_You're having a panic attack. You are safe and everything is fine. In a few moments, you will feel all right. _

"Long live the King," the man said in return.

If anyone in the Leaky Cauldron heard the 'pop' of an apparation, they didn't so much as glance up.

The next thing she knew, Hermione found herself standing at the foot of her bed, wand out. Crookshanks jumped down from his perch on her quilt to rub around her ankles, but she had no time to focus on his sudden burst of affection. She put her wand to her temple, pulling the last image she'd seen from her mind. She didn't own a pensive, but she found a home for the silvery strand of thought in an empty teacup on her nightstand.

Her heart was still racing, but it was as though she was keeping one step ahead of the panic now. It was like being back in the tent, back at Shell cottage, or breaking into Gringotts. Without thinking too long on the subject she reached for the little bell Ron had left and let it chime.

Then she waited.

She took one breath, then another. The heat of the moment was ebbing away. She wasn't seeing the world as crisply as she had been not a second before. Still, something trembling in her core told her that she'd been right to trust her instincts.

Ron appeared moments later with a Chudley Canons apron wrapped around his waist. His wand was raised, ready for action. His brow was furrowed, his eyes were focused, and there was a hard line of tension in his mouth that was so unfamiliar to Hermione.

He was scanning the little apartment, looking for a threat, but there was only Hermione, looking pale and determined. He made to lower his wand. He unclenched his jaw to speak, to ask what was wrong, but before Ron could act, Hermione heard her own voice speaking.

"Is there another uprising," she asked, fighting back the sensation of her panic closing in. She would not let it swallow her whole.

Ron looked suddenly shocked out of his battle stance and nearly dropped his wand.

"Huh?"

"Are the followers of Vol –" but the word had become too much. "The followers of You-Know-Who, have they been active? Is there another attempt at an uprising?"

"Hermione?" He shoved his wand in the pocket of his apron and his hands had found purchase on Hermione's shoulders.

"I saw them – more Deatheaters, talking about their king. We have to warn Harry. Oh, and he has a child to think about. We need to hide him. I have to start practicing Defense spells and –"

"Deep breath."

"I know. I'm having a panic attack. I'm breathing through it."

His blue eyes were on her brown ones, steady and reassuring. "Do you have these often?"

"No, only sometimes. There are triggers."

"Take another deep breath for me, slow as you can." He tried to stop his eyes from glancing down to the low scoop of her neckline as she inhaled.

"It's all in the teacup – I'm not imaging this. I knew this was coming and I thought I could stay out of it, but we have to fight back."

Ron gave a cautionary look. "The teacup?"

"There's a _thought_ in the teacup. You need a pensieve."

"There's one at the office. Whatever it is you saw, I will help, but – look, I know that you left the wizarding world for a reason. I'm going to try to keep you out of this. You don't have to get involved."

That seemed to help shake off the last of her panic. Her eyes went hot with the temper he'd known so well.

"Ron, I _always_ end up involved. I've been petrified, I broke out a fugitive from his execution, I was attacked by Dementors and I have been in countless battles with wizards who wanted me dead. That is 'involved'. Normal kids were dealing with homework and dating and whether or not they would get their favourite dessert. I was 'involved', Ron."

"We had fucked up school years."

"You think?"

She hadn't realized before, but Ron was slowly rubbing his hands up and down her arms, and she could feel her body calming.

"But we also _got_ ourselves into a few of those situations. We made choices. I'm trying to tell you that you don't have to fight anymore. You don't _have_ to."

Tears, soft, hot and unexpected started to rush down her cheeks, and Hermione hated the dry sob burning in her throat. She wanted nothing more than for Ron to hold her or leave her to her humiliation.

"Um," his cool veneer cracked. The trained Auror suddenly looked completely out of his comfort zone. "They never cover this in briefings." He tried to grin. It didn't matter how many times he'd seen a girl cry, something in his gut always told him that he was to blame.

Ron's firm hands guided Hermione to sit on the edge of her bed.

"Okay, I have a Shepherd's pie to take out of the oven back at my place. I'll be right back. Don't move."

When Ron reappeared, he'd taken off his apron. He was holding a bottle of shiraz under his arm and in his hands was a casserole dish full of hearty Shepherd's pie that smelled of earthy potatoes and savoury meat. He set the dinner down in the kitchen and emerged with a glass of wine, which he urged into Hermione's hands.

"I'm a professional, drink up."

She gave a halfhearted laugh and then took a long sip, letting the spicy red smooth out some of the feelings and memories twisted up inside her.

The sick, trained part of Ron's brain went into overdrive as he took a sip of his own wine. This was his chance. Williamson wanted Hermione recruited? She was practically recruiting herself!

And she looked like she was turning herself inside out in the process...

"Hermione," he found himself kneeling in front of her and found himself wishing this conversation was happening to anyone but them. "I'm on your side and I want to help, but I need to ask, before we go any further – before I look at what you saw tonight. Hermione, what really happened? Why are you..."

"Living like a muggle?"

His cheeks flushed pink.

"Yeah. I mean we'd won the battle at Hogwarts. We ended a war and then suddenly –"

She took another sip of wine, and was almost laughing when she came up for air. "But that's just the thing Ron, we _didn't_ end the war. We stopped one violent surge. We didn't stop the stereotypes that surround muggleborns, or blood purist prjudices about what makes a _real_ wizard. We did not bridge the gap between pureblood aristocracy and modern wizards and witches. We won a battle and stopped a tyrant, but the war is still going on – and –"

The walls were closing in again all too quickly. Dementors surrounded her. She was facing down a dragon. She was writhing on the floor of Malfoy Manor. She could her a high cold laugh. She could feel the thousand knives of the Cruciatus curse like it was happening all over again.

The breath was gone from her lungs.

She was drowning again. Always drowning.

Somewhere in the distance she felt a glass being taken from her hands.

"Hermione." Ron's hands gripped her arms and at first that made her panic more, made the knives stab at her more viciously, but he would not let go, even when she let the dry sob building inside her rake the walls of the building with her anguish. "Hermione! Hermione, look at me. _Look_ at me."

Endless blue eyes, like the light at the surface of the water.

"Slow breaths."

"I'm still a target," she heard herself sob. "Always the target. Always the _mudblood_," she spat the last word like she was ripping something vile and living from her heart.

Ron's grip on her arms tightened and she could feel anger there.

"Hermione Jean Granger," he almost growled. "You are talking like a victim."

"Well, guess what Ron, I AM a victim! We're all victims of a world that is never going to change. You-Know-Who was the symptom of a much bigger illness."

"And was running away supposed to make it change?" _Shit_. He hadn't meant to say it. He hadn't meant to let his temper get the better of him.

But that was exactly what she needed. The anguish in her eyes turned into a look of venom.

"No. But fighting the system was only putting a bigger bull's-eye on my back."

"You fought for our world and then you just abandoned it!"

_Abandoned me…_

"I didn't expect to live through the war!"

She was on her feet now with fists clenched at her side. Her voice felt horse from the ferocity of her screams. The honesty of her words seemed to dim all the lights in the room.

Ron suddenly felt like someone had punched him hard in the gut. His lungs ached with the effort to find breath again.

"I sent my parents off with no memory of me." Now that she'd started, she had to keep going. "I-I wasn't planning on coming back. I - I didn't want them to know that their daughter died. And then I lived." The hiccoughs and sobs were almost too much for her to get out the next words. "What was I supposed to do?"

Somewhere in the horror of what he was hearing Ron found his grip. He rammed his hands into his pockets as he stood. He fought the urge to pace.

He could feel something like tears sliding down his cheeks. Silence filled the little apartment for an eternity.

Hermione felt numb. She couldn't bring herself to look at Ron. She didn't want to know what he thought of her right then.

When Ron did finally speak, his voice was like a strand of cool water through all the fire of her confession. Where she'd expected fury, there was something else - something like heartbreak. She could feel him reaching over the decade to her. She dared to look into his eyes, glassy with emotion, and she felt a hand squeeze her heart.

"I wish we hadn't been seventeen," he said. "I wish I knew what I know now. You should have been sent to St. Mungo's. You should have spoken with councilors and been monitored. Instead you walked away, and I didn't know to go after you; and you only had your own anxieties and fears to live on."

Was she crying? How long had she been crying. They'd started. They had to finish.

"The less I did magic, the fewer nightmares I had." Had she ever spoken those words out loud? Ron was staring at her, willing her to continue. She wished she could read his expression.

"Focusing on being part of the muggle world felt safe. Like the war wasn't real. It was fun," she admitted. "Like a muggle-studies assignment – and it had been so long since there'd been any fun in the world. It was like seeing how long I could wear a costume. How long could I play Hermione Granger, student, Hermione Granger girlfriend, Hermione Granger party-girl?"

"Ten years."

The leaden reality hung in the air for a moment. Hermione had to clear her throat before continuing.

"I liked it, and – and I didn't know how to stop once I started. I was in people's lives. And I still like it. I like TV and cinemas, and mobiles. I like texting friends. I like clubs, and dancing and fine dining. I like technology, even if it doesn't like me. I like wearing muggle clothes. I love my heritage. I'm _muggle_-born"

"No one's telling you to give any of that up. But… Hermione, going completely muggle, giving up your magic? You did Voldemort's work for him."

If ever there was a moment that Ron had expected to be slapped, it was right then. He could see the itch in her wand hand. He could see the sting of fresh tears in her eyes. But the energy that had been building, the temper that had been crackling, all of it was suddenly drained from the air.

He could feel Hermione stepping away. It was as though something about her essence stepped back inside its shell. Whatever it was that had flared up, had been just as quickly extinguished.

"I'd like you to leave now." It was the choked sound in her throat that made him ache to take her in his arms.

"I'm sorry. Hermione," he panicked. "I'm so sorry."

"The teacup is on the nightstand. Thank you for the wine."

"Hermione, please –"

"Ron," she whispered. "It's like you said, we fought for freedom. Now leave me free to live my life. You're right. I was getting in over my head trying to convince myself I have something to fight for – something to prove."

He looked ready to speak again. He'd have given anything to erase the last few minutes. In one sentence he'd managed to screw up everything for them and (he hated himself for even thinking it) for the department. _Fuck!_

But before Ron could even attempt to approach the damage, Hermione held up a hand to quiet him, and the fresh tears brimming her eyes was enough to hold him at bay.

He disapparated - teacup in hand.

Hermione stared at the two wine glasses perched on her end table for several minutes before pouring their red contents down the drain.

"What a waste," she said to the room. It was another moment before she realized she was still crying.


End file.
